


The Painting

by Sarahtoo



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-16
Updated: 2016-01-16
Packaged: 2018-05-14 08:33:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5736790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarahtoo/pseuds/Sarahtoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The prompt was: "Jack recovers a stolen painting. The reclining nude is instantly recognizable."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Painting

This one was different from the first. In the Sarcelle hanging in Phryne’s boudoir, her back is arched, forcing her breast upward so that her erect nipple is highlighted, and the dark hair between her thighs is distinct. In that painting, her head is thrown back, as if she’s recovering from orgasm and the man who gave it to her has just stepped away. _Which is rather ridiculous,_ Jack thought, his mind wandering to that smaller canvas, the lines of which he’d studied more than once. _What man_ _would step away after having just given Phryne Fisher an orgasm? The smart man would move closer to give her another._

He brought his attention back to the framed painting propped against the wall to the side of his desk. In this image, Phryne is seated nude in a dark blue high-backed chair, her temple resting against the deep wing on one side, her contemplative gaze looking past the viewer. One arm is flung above her head, the palm of her hand open and vulnerable; her other arm lies along the armrest, her fingers dangling limp and relaxed. Her dark hair is bound up into a bun, one curl trailing down the angle of her neck to her shoulder. Her breasts face the viewer, pointed and pert, and her legs are comfortably arranged, crossed at the ankle so that her pubis is a suggestion mostly obscured by the rise of her thigh.

Propping his hip on the end of his desk, Jack studied the lines of the painting, wondering how one woman could have had as many adventures in her life as Phryne has. _She looks so young_ , he thought, and realized that she had to have been no older than her early twenties during her time in Paris after the war. And though she was beautiful in this painting, her face unlined, her skin unblemished, he thought that she was rather… unfinished, perhaps. He preferred today’s Phryne, who had laugh lines at the corners of her eyes and freckles on her shoulders and her nose, and whose clothing hinted at the beauty of her body but didn’t reveal all of her secrets.

Jack realized that he was far more comfortable with the artistry of words than with that of canvas and paint. He would rather create images in his mind to accompany the stories he loved; a good painting was almost too immediate for his taste, and he knew that he was easily overcome by the impact. Phryne enjoyed art—he wondered absently whether that interest germinated before or after her artist’s model days—and he thought that said something about her impatient nature, though he knew that she also enjoyed time with a good book. At least, she liked to read when she was curled up next to him. Maybe the additional social aspect of snuggling added to her enjoyment of the printed page.

Looking at this painting, recovered in a raid on the home of a suspected art thief (and it turned out that the constabulary’s suspicions were correct), he wondered who the artist had been, and what story Phryne would tell about it. He found himself endlessly fascinated by the planes and angles of her character; she approached life with her arms wide open, ready to take any and all experiences that came her way. It was a very different approach than he’d always taken. He was cautious, always, weighing the odds and planning for the worst. Perhaps that was why the two of them worked so well together. They complemented each other.

“Oh my, I’d forgotten that one,” came her voice from the door of his office. He’d called her, so he knew she was on her way, and he’d heard her coming; the cadence of her stride and the sharp click of her heels against the station floor were comfortably familiar. Phryne stepped in, closing the door behind her, then moved to stand beside Jack, placing a hand on his shoulder. He glanced up at her, and smiled as she dropped a kiss on his mouth.

“I can remember thinking how very ridiculous this pose was—as if any woman would choose to do her deep thinking while sprawled naked in a chair. But Lorenzo—that’s Lorenzo Peretti, a lovely young man whose talent was never appreciated properly—insisted.”

“Oh, I’d imagine that you appreciated his talent properly,” Jack interjected dryly. Phryne shot a sideways glance at him, her smirk echoing his.

“Lorenzo thought the bareness of the body hinted at the baring of the soul, or some such thing,” she smiled, shaking her head at the memory. “I always rather thought he just enjoyed looking at naked women.” Jack snorted.

“Who can blame him, really?” he said. “Are there more nudes of you that I should be on the lookout for?”

“Well, perhaps, but I shouldn’t think any of those would find their way here,” she tilted her head, studying the painting’s lines. “Though I wouldn’t have expected this one to make its way to Melbourne either! Where did it come from?”

“Remember the stolen Monet I told you about last week?” At her nod, he continued. “One of my inspectors raided the house of the man we suspected of the theft, and he brought this to me because he thought I might be interested.” He smiled at her small laugh. Their relationship was public knowledge, at least among Jack’s officers, so it didn’t surprise her that one of them had recognized her and thought to bring this to Jack. The men under Jack’s command were remarkably loyal. “It’s evidence, of course. Do you know what it was called? I’d like to check to see if it’s been reported as stolen.”

Her brow furrowed as she tried to remember. “I think it was named something terribly pretentious—Lorenzo fancied himself a poet as well—but I can’t recall, exactly. I’ll think on it and get back to you.” Examining herself in the painting, she went on. “I rather like my hair in this. Do you think I should grow it out, Jack?”

Jack knew that she kept her hair short both because it was the fashion of the day and because it had given Rene Dubois a tether that he’d used against her. For her to even ask this question meant that she was feeling safe, and that she trusted her lover not to abuse her. He felt a lump in his throat, and he leaned into her slightly. As that lover, he was thrilled that she had come to feel so secure in his embrace.

“I like your hair just as it is,” he said softly. “But then, I always think you look beautiful.”

“Even though I’m no longer that innocent girl?” she said, nodding toward the painting.

“Now you’re just fishing,” he retorted, and she laughed again.

“What will happen to this painting, Jack?”

“Well, that depends. If it was stolen, we’ll try to find its original owner and return it. If it wasn’t stolen, it’ll likely be sold by the Victorian police at auction as illegal gains.”

“I would like to buy it, if it comes to that,” Phryne said, examining the work.

“I’ll do my best to keep track of it for you,” Jack said, knowing that he’d be using his Detective Inspector status to claim the painting himself if the opportunity arose. He rarely traded on his rank, but in this case, he didn’t even consider it a smudge on his honor to do so. If the painting wasn’t stolen property, it would soon belong to Jack, and he would love to be able to give it to Phryne.

“ _La Donna a Distanza_ ,” Phryne blurted out. “That’s its name—I knew that it was something rather pretentious, especially since I wasn’t particularly remote or unapproachable. In fact, he liked to get inspired for the day by—”

“No, I don’t need to know, Phryne,” Jack interrupted, standing to make a note in the case file of the names of the artist and the painting. She smirked at him, and he knew she’d launched into that explanation on purpose.

“Well, maybe I can show you later,” she said, arching an eyebrow at him. He returned her smirk, knowing that she’d make it worth his while.

“I’ll look forward to it,” he rumbled softly, and she leaned over the desk to kiss him again before heading out the door.

*****

Later that evening, Phryne lay flat on her stomach, her lungs heaving and her body lax with the aftereffects of pleasure. When Jack had come home, he’d been rather keen—she thought it might have been the presence of her portrait in his office all day, and she found herself wishing it could stay in his office for a very long time. He’d pulled her up the stairs almost as soon as he’d come in the door, and the ravishment that followed had been delightful.

She summoned the ounce of energy needed to turn her head on the pillow to face him; he lay beside her, sweat drying on his skin, his chest moving rapidly as he caught his breath. She smiled a little. His cautious nature had once led her to believe that he was dull and passionless; as she’d grown to know him, she’d learned that his stoic exterior hid a funny, loyal, honorable man who felt things deeply. And his passionate side, once unleashed, was a match for her own in every way.

Studying his profile, she marveled at him. He was a handsome man, his chiseled jaw and high cheekbones marrying well with his wide mouth. His slightly snubbed nose should have seemed out of place, but instead, its very lack of perfection made him more approachable. She loved to touch her finger to the tiny dent in his chin and stroke the soft skin of his earlobes. And when his hair was mussed, as it was now, she found him almost irresistible.

Jack turned his head to look at her, and she felt his fingers entwine with hers in the space between their bodies.

“If I were to paint you,” he said quietly, “I would paint you as you are now—mussed and pleasured, recovering after lovemaking.” Turning on his side, he trailed his fingers over her shoulders. “I’d include the freckles you have here,” he leaned to kiss them softly even as she scrunched her nose to show her own opinion of those blasted spots. “And I’d paint you smiling so that your laugh lines are visible,” he leaned to place a kiss on her temple, and she closed her eyes momentarily, her smile bringing those lines into view.

“I’d make sure that your hair was wild, as if I’ve just pulled my hands out of it,” he stroked the flyaway strands, smoothing them against her skull, “and be sure that the flush of pleasure is evident on your cheeks.” His knuckles trailed down the side of her face. “I could stop there, and you would still be the most breathtaking image in a gallery of nudes,” his deep tones whispered across her skin. For once, though, she was too enraptured by the words he was saying to be distracted by his velvety voice.

“Don’t stop there, Jack,” she breathed, strangely moved by his words. Many men had called her beautiful over the years, but all of them had praised her “perfection”—Jack was the only one who loved her because of her flaws, not in spite of them.

Jack’s smile was tender, and he pressed a kiss to her forehead before turning his attention to her body.

“I’d paint you on your stomach, like this, taking up most of the bed,” he said wryly, and she huffed out a laugh, unable to argue. “With the covers low and the light playing over your skin.” He stroked her back, his large hand almost spanning its entire width. She arched a little into his caress, like a cat. “And I’d make sure that the covers were pushed down just far enough to show the dimples here,” his thumb and fingertip nestled into them, the tickling pressure causing Phryne to twist away a little, “along with the top crease of your bottom.” He stroked his hand under the covers to palm one buttock, lowering his head to kiss his way down her spine.

Phryne could feel the evidence of his returning desire against her hip, and she felt herself responding. How did he do this to her? She should be sated—he’d already given her multiple orgasms this evening, but she knew that he could bring her up to peak again. She had just closed her eyes, the feeling of his lips trailing down her back absorbing all of her attention, when his stomach let out a tremendous growl. Phryne giggled and Jack paused, laughing, his forehead dropping to rest on the small of her back, his hand under the covers pausing in its downward trek.

“Perhaps we should feed you before we continue this conversation, darling,” she said through her laughter.

“Well, I _did_ have a rather long day,” he said against her skin.

“And you will need your strength later,” she replied, rolling and sitting up in one smooth motion. He echoed it, levering himself up to meet her. “I think that Mr Butler probably hasn’t yet put our dinner in the ice box; if we’re quick, we might not be too late.”

“Even if we are, it was worth it,” he said, leaning in to kiss her. She responded sweetly, threading her fingers into his hair, and both were on the brink of falling back into bed when Jack’s stomach rumbled again. Breaking apart, they laughed and stood to find their night clothes. Mr Butler wouldn’t mind if they didn’t dress for dinner.


End file.
